That certainly didn’t seem like something her aunt could speak of in such absolute terms. Oh, it was most likely there were no other scandalized, impoverished families present, at least to the extent her family had managed to bungle it up.
Still, her aunt surely could appreciate that, though Hermione didn’t expect one of those dashing, sonnet-writing gentlemen, she still aspired for at least polite …and certainly not a cruel one. “He called into question the intelligence of all those I—”
“I don’t care if he called into question God’s creation of the universe, you need a husband,” her aunt gritted out between tightly clenched lips.
So, it would seem Aunt Agatha could not appreciate Hermione’s desire for, at the very least, a nice gentleman. Now she knew.
Her aunt drew in an audible breath, more flustered than Hermione remembered. “Now, Hermione,” Aunt Agatha began, “I promised your father I would see you wed to a wealthy, respectable,” but not respectful, “nobleman. I am doing this for your mother. My sister. I intend to present those who’d be willing to have you.”
A snort escaped Hermione, which she buried into her palm as a cough. “Pardon me.” How very hopeless her aunt made her sound.
Only the hint of Aunt Agatha’s nearly black irises were revealed through the narrow slit of her gaze. Her aunt motioned to the seat. “I’ll return in a short while with another gentleman and this time I expect you to be perfectly polite and proper—”
She opened her mouth.
“Even if he insults the whole of the ballroom. Make. A. Match.” With that, her aunt stormed off, marching through the crowd with a military precision better reserved for the king’s army than a matchmaking aunt.
With a sigh, Hermione reclaimed her seat. A determined matchmaker was what her aunt was. “All stories need a determined matchmaker,” she murmured under her breath. She picked up her pencil and wrote a handful of words onto her still partner-less dance card and then let it flutter back to her side. She studied her aunt’s forward progress through the crowd. She really was grateful to Aunt Agatha for throwing her support behind her and acting as her chaperone, but really, did she possess such a low opinion that she would—Hermione leaned forward in her seat. That she would… Her aunt…
…now spoke to a rotund gentleman. The corpulent fellow scratched at his sage waistcoat. Oh, dear. No, her aunt wouldn’t expect her to make a match with a stranger closer to Papa’s age than Hermione’s twenty-two years. Perhaps the greying gentleman was merely a friend of Uncle Horace. The man tugged out a kerchief and dabbed the gleaming beads of sweat upon his drenched brow. With his eyes, he followed her aunt’s less than subtle point across the ballroom, through the sea of dancers.
Right to Hermione.
And though Hermione would never be so shallow as to determine a gentleman’s suitability by his appearance alone, she would be particular enough to avoid the suit of one older gentleman who licked his lips, leering at her like she was a glazed sugar biscuit.
She groaned, grateful for the total lack of people around to hear the unladylike expression of annoyance.
They started across the room.
Bloody wonderful.
C
hapter 4
Sebastian made it a point to avoid marriage-minded misses. Following his ponderings that evening in his office, he knew at his age, it was of course inevitable that he’d have to do right by the Mallen line and secure a duchess. He would when he found the one wholly unimpressed by the title of duke. So as of now, he had little interest in a wife.
Which was perhaps why at that precise moment, his gaze wandered off to the forgotten edge of the ballroom floor. And why he happened to see her.
From over the rim of his champagne glass, he studied the young woman and her silly, blindingly bright yellow skirts. With dark brown, very nearly black, hair pulled back in a severe chignon, and rather nondescript features, there was nothing about her that would immediately pull at a man’s attention. But then with the small pencil attached to the dance card on her wrist, she jotted something upon that card.
He sipped champagne and across the heads of dancers performing the steps of a quadrille, he continued to study her. Even seated, he detected the way the fabric of her gown clung to her slim, willowy frame. Sebastian made to turn away when she suddenly looked up. Her narrow shoulders stiffened and she passed her gaze throughout the room, as though feeling his stare upon her person.
Sebastian blamed it on boredom, the tedium of attending mundane amusements night after night, but the young woman’s furtive movements intrigued him. And he’d not been intrigued since Miss Sophie Winters; the young woman he’d courted who had opted to wed his closest friend, Christopher, Earl of Waxham. Even if the courtship had only begun as a ruse, it had become something more and—The dark-haired stranger across the room caught her lower lip between her teeth, seeming lost in thought. Her eyes widened and she hastily grabbed her pencil.
With her dark hair and slender frame she didn’t possess any of the soft, golden beauty he preferred in women. Something about her commanded his notice, demanded his attention, if for no other reason than to understand the intense glint in her eyes and whatever the hell it was she marked down on that card.
Then her eyes collided with his. Any other young lady would have dropped her stare demurely to her lap, yanked her gaze elsewhere. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. The bold as you please wallflower at the back, central portion of the room returned his stare, moved it over him, almost methodical in her perusal. She then proceeded to mark something else upon her card. She returned her eyes once more to his. He stared back, expecting her to glance away. Only, she tipped her chin up a notch and shamelessly held his gaze.
“Mallen, never tell me you’re woolgathering in your advancing years.”
He started. Droplets of champagne spilled over the rim of his glass. His close friend, the Earl of Waxham, grinned. “Waxham,” he drawled, hardly needing Waxham to point out that he was getting on in years. Most especially not on this day. He looked about, resisting the urge to shift his focus back to the note-taking wallflower. “And wherever is the lovely Countess of Waxham?”
“Otherwise occupied by your sister,” he said, inclining his head.
Sebastian searched about and located the two young women at the corner of the room, enrapt in their conversation. They periodically glanced his way, gestured, and whispered. He narrowed his gaze. This was never a good thing; to be the object of scrutiny for two scheming women. “And I gather you have no idea what has them so enrapt this evening?”
Waxham’s lips turned up in one corner in a lazy grin. He tugged at his cravat. A dull flush climbed his neck. “No idea.”
Sebastian snorted. He could easily recognize a lie. Particularly from the man he’d considered a friend since Eton and Oxford. But for the tension between them when they’d vied for the now Countess of Waxham’s hand, the two had been fast friends since early on. He glanced out across the floor in time to detect Miss-Note-Taking-Miss scratch another something upon her card. “Who is that?” he asked quietly.
Waxham looked about. “Who is who?” He furrowed his brow.
The duke gestured discreetly across the ballroom to the young woman now tapping a distracted rhythm upon the floor, a discordant beat to the lively reel played by Lady Denley’s orchestra.
His friend scanned the ballroom. “Lady Tisdale?”
Lady Tisdale, the notorious widow in her dampened gold, satin skirts. “Not the Lady Tisdale.” He jerked his chin once toward the young woman in her silly ruffled, yellow skirts.
His friend caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. “Er…Lady Alcott?”
Sebastian closed his eyes a moment and counted to five for patience. “Not the Lady Alcott. That woman,” he said impatiently.
“Mallen, there are any number of women present. You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”
“The young lady in the yellow dress.”
&n
bsp; Waxham swept his gaze over the area, at last settling on the lithe stranger. He again wrinkled his brow. “I’ve no idea.”
“Humph.” How could no one have an idea as to the lady’s identity? Surely someone knew her. Or of her. At the very least a name.
A dawning understanding glinted in his friend’s hazel eyes. “Ahh,” he said with the same deliberate slowness as one who’d uncovered the tombs of Egypt.
Sebastian knew enough to not let his friend, sister, mother or anyone in between bait him and yet… “What?” he snapped.
“I merely am remarking that a young woman has captured your notice.” He paused. “At last. Which will, of course, spare you from your sister and Sophie’s matchmaking.”
Traitor. Sebastian had known his bachelor state had surely been the topic of discussion between his meddling sister and her dear friend, Sophie. He took a long swallow of champagne, and then blinked, his friend’s words registering.
He choked around the mouthful of liquor. “She has not captivated me. Well, not in a sense that I’m admiring the lady,” he amended. It had been more those long fingers about the tiny pencil at her wrist that had occupied his attention for too much time now. They really were quite delicious fingers that roused wicked thoughts…if one was the roguish sort. Which he was not…
“Captured your notice.”
He yanked his attention back to Waxham. What was the other man on about?
His friend shot him a pointed glance. “I didn’t say she’d captivated you.” He grinned. “I merely pointed out she’d captured your notice.” Sebastian silently cursed as Waxham pressed on, worse than a matchmaking mama. “I imagine we can easily have Sophie or your sister orchestrate an introduction.”
“I’m certain.” The answer sprang fast to his lips. He took in the toe-tapping miss. “She certainly doesn’t possess the…oh, go to hell, Waxham,” he mumbled and downed the remaining contents of his crystal flute. His interest in the nondescript woman had nothing to do with any matter of physical awareness but an interest in just what in the devil she’d scribbled onto that card after looking at him.
Just then, a greying woman in elegant silver satin skirts paused beside the young woman, calling her attention away from Sebastian. The older woman, he searched his mind for the woman’s name…Lady…Pembroke, Pemerley, Pemberly. The matron gestured to the dandified fop beside her.
Sebastian’s mouth tightened. Lord Whitmore. Known as something of a mother’s boy and one who abused his horseflesh, the young lady, even with her plain, nondescript features could certainly do better in terms of suitors. A good deal better.
Just then, Whitmore spun on his heel and marched across the ballroom, a crimson splash of color upon his cheeks.
Lady Pemberly gesticulated wildly, her face flushed. The young woman’s slightly too-full mouth moved rapidly. Whatever she said caused great splotches of color to flood the woman’s cheeks. She spun on her heel and started across the ballroom.
The young lady stood there a moment, looking about as though to ascertain whether anyone had witnessed her public dressing-down, and then reclaimed her seat.
He was suddenly filled with a desire to know the odd young woman’s name, which of course made little sense. Marriage-minded misses did not intrigue him.
Yet, this one did.
As if reading his thoughts, Waxham drawled, “You do realize for stating you have little interest in the lady, you’ve not removed your gaze from her since I arrived.”
“Go to h…” His words trailed off.
Her head shot up and she glanced out across the ballroom floor. He suspected she’d once again found him with her stare, except… He followed her narrow-eyed gaze to Lady Pemberly. The old matron stood conversing with Viscount Bull, a widower on his third wife, in the market for a fourth.
And, he returned his attention to the spritely creature. By the manner in which she surged to her feet, she gauged the viscount intended to include her as a possible fourth viscountess. The young lady all but sprinted through the hall, earning curious stares from those she weaved between.
Sebastian deposited his glass upon a passing tray. “If you’ll excuse me, Waxham.” His friend’s laughter trailed after him as he set out in search of the young woman. Sebastian trained his stare forward, discouraging matchmaking mamas and eager debutantes. He tightened his jaw. He’d become accustomed to dodging such advances through the years; young women, who’d scheme, steal, or seduce for the title of Duchess of Mallen.
He exited through the end doorway that emptied out into a long corridor and caught a flash of bright yellow skirts as they disappeared around the corner. Sebastian quickened his stride. His experience avoiding those marriage-minded misses, of course, should have taught him the perils in following after unwed young ladies. He turned right at the end of the hall in time to see the lady slip inside a room.
He hesitated. Perhaps the young woman sought out an assignation. Though the plain young lady who’d sent off Whitmore in a huff didn’t strike him as one to engage in clandestine trysts. So, it begged the question: what would one such as her be doing darting about the halls of their host’s home? He shoved aside the years of caution ingrained into him and started for the door. Sebastian paused outside the room. If the young lady intended to meet a lover, she’d do to have a good deal more caution than to leave the door ajar. He angled his head to study her furtive movements.
She moved about the room with a purposeful stride. Logical and reasonable, he was not given to flights of fancy as was his younger sister, Lady Emmaline, recently the Marchioness of Drake. Yet, studying the ruffled creature, he considered all manner of nefarious intentions that had sent her here. He glanced back down the hall. He really should leave and yet… He returned his attention to the woman now running her fingers over the walls of Lord Denley’s office. He rather suspected as a favor to his host he really owed it to the man to determine what this stealthy creature was doing away from the festivities and searching his room.
She paused, her slim body in profile and folded her arms about her chest. A loose strand escaped her orderly chignon. The dark tress fell over her eye. She blew it back and continued to peruse the room. The soft tread of her slippers padded across the earl’s Aubusson carpet. The loud scrape of furniture being shoved across the floor echoed out into the hall. “Bloody hell,” she muttered.
In spite of the threat of discovery, a grin tugged at his lips. Ladies of his acquaintance did not curse. Though, the peculiar lady would likely never breathe those words aloud if she knew a duke was before her, he found it…her…endearing.
She cursed again.
His grin deepened, suddenly very eager to learn the identity of a woman who filled her dance card with mysterious words, cursed in private, and boldly commandeered her host’s private office.
It could have just been poor, rotten luck or fate’s way of telling her its precise thoughts on her fleeing Aunt Agatha and Lord Lecherous Eyes, but at that precise moment, walking a distracted path about Lord Denley’s office, Hermione’s toes collided with an ill-placed King Louis XIV chair.
She gasped and captured her foot in one hand. “Bloody hell,” she muttered and hopped up and down on her uninjured leg. Tears smarted behind her eyes. She glared at the offending piece of furniture. “Blasted dark.” Most of her stories featured darkened rooms and clandestine meetings, yet with her toes smarting she could now admit there was nothing at all romantic about the inky night.
She continued to rub her toes through the thin fabric of her yellow satin slippers. She lowered her leg and her foot became entangled in the layers upon layers of ruffles. “Bloody hell,” she cursed again and sprawled backward into the now-convenient King Louis XIV chair. A strand of hair escaped the neat coiffure arranged by the maid sent round by Aunt Agatha. She folded her arms across her chest and blew back the lock. The recalcitrant piece fell right back across her brow.
Yes, indeed there was nothing in the least romantic about stolen moments away fr
om the crush of activity of the ballroom. However, she shoved herself back to her feet. There was a good deal to be said for enjoying the blessed solitude so one might have a moment with her own thoughts.
The half-moon bathed the room in a soft white glow, and Hermione glanced about, appreciating the elegant space. The rich, mahogany Chippendale sideboard and great mahogany desk were a perfect match to the masculine deep gold and chestnut red hues of the Aubusson carpet.
Her lips pulled wistfully. She could fit all the bedrooms of her family’s country estate into this grand office. Hermione studied the room with a writer’s eyes. She’d yet to meet a brooding duke for her story, but she would imagine this dark, forbidding space would be just the kind of office kept by the gentleman of her story. She walked the perimeter of the room and trailed her fingers along the gold silk wallpaper, onward to the white marble fireplace mantle, the one flash of light in an otherwise dark sanctuary.
Hermione rested her palms along the cool, hard edge and stared down into the empty hearth, feeling like an interloper in a world to which she didn’t belong. Nor a world in which she cared to belong. She had little desire for the grand opulence of life wedded to a lofty, gentleman rich as Croesus. She merely needed a gentleman who’d just enough coin to spare her family from father’s mismanaged accounts, overlook Elizabeth’s scandalous condition, oh, and welcome a bookish wife who penned stories for payment. She sighed. Yet, there it was. She couldn’t change her circumstances, let alone herself. Nor did she want to. That fictional gentleman would have to accept her and those she loved without question. Yes, a very tall order indeed.
She cast a glance over her shoulder, eying the slightly ajar door. Nor did she intend to let Aunt Agatha arrange a match between her and some foul, lecherous, condescending nobleman. It was a young lady’s lot in life to make the most advantageous match for the benefit of increasing the family’s coffers and improving the lineage, but she had too much self-respect and sense of self-worth to ever dare settle for any of the gentlemen her aunt had presented thus far. She was content to be the provincial miss as Lord Whitmore had earlier charged, living in the country, writing her stories, and caring for her siblings. The glittering world of London Society held little appeal for her.
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 4
